


Animal Intelligence

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Laws of Effect [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Dom Natasha, Dom/sub, F/M, Implied knife play, Light Verbal Humiliation, Shovel Talk, Strapping, Sub Bucky Barnes, Whipping, handjobs, spy games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-01-06 01:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12200796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Natasha's been built into a Dominant. James has been trained into a submissive. Together they make it work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proposed by George Romanes, the theory of Animal Intelligence suggests that animals, like humans, think things through rationally when dealing with a new environment or situation. The concept was later refuted by Thorndike, who hypothesized that animals learn by interacting with their environment through a series of trial and error.

It's been too long since they've done this. 

Natasha can always tell when it's been too long. 

The slope of his shoulders starts to hold a tight, thin line of tension that throws off the way he walks, just a bit, just enough that someone like her, who knows him so well, can see it. His dark eyes go dull and restless, never still as he constantly scans his surroundings, for threats, for danger. He talks even less – if that's possible – and he starts sleeping sitting up right, crunched into a corner. 

It's been too long. 

Of course, he's not the only one that is sometimes wound too tight. 

Her anger starts to show, she withdraws, becomes even more brutal in completing her self-set missions. She starts to look for targets that remind her of people from her past, starts to linger over the kill, starts to value creativity over efficiency. 

She doesn't believe in luck or fate, but she counts herself fortunate that they're so in tune with each other, that their needs match so well. 

The Winter Soldier. 

He's an icy shadow, a silent death threat, and she's seen some of the most powerful men in the world cower at his feet when he comes calling. 

He impresses and amuses her in equal turns, and it's only been two years since she'd first met him, when he had stumbled across her on a mission of his own and they'd leant each other a helping hand. 

Now he's a friend, the Soldier, a colleague and an ally. These days they work together more often than not, and the sight of them standing side-by-side is enough to strike terror into the blackest depth of the criminal underbelly. 

Here though, here they're not the Soldier and the Widow. 

Here he's just James, and she is no one but Natasha, his Domina. 

_'We really do fit together remarkably well,'_ she muses, circling her sub slowly on six-inch stiletto heels. The Red Room had left her with the simmering urge to dominate, the need to maintain control of her surroundings, while his training had left him with the unbreakable instinct to obey. After fighting against what they were for so long it was a painful relief to give in, to fall into their respective roles and actually take the time to scene with someone they trusted, even if it only happens every three weeks or so. 

Tonight, tonight is the first time they've been together like this in three _months._

Natasha comes to a halt directly in front of her sub, admires his form as he kneels, still and silent at her feet. They have a lot of safehouses scattered across the globe, but this one is her favorite. A small, ranch style home, two separate bedrooms upstairs, the closest neighbors more than six miles away. More importantly, a full, finished basement that they've slowly built into a gorgeous dungeon, dim and hushed and full of silky opulence. Just walking down the stairs is enough to send a shiver rippling through her fingertips, to heighten her senses in dark. 

She loves preparing for this, setting everything up just right. She files and paints her nails blood red, dresses in heels and loose harem pants, a billowy white shirt without sleeves. She arranges her stage, makes sure her hair is braided back from her face, then sits down in a chair with a glass of wine that she doesn't drink, waits for her submissive. 

She loves the way he nearly stumbles when he comes clomping into the house in his heavy boots, his eyes going wide and a bolt of lust, of _relief_ flashing across his face. He doesn't go immediately to his knees – he knows better than that – instead puts away his clothes and his gear neatly and carefully where it all belongs. She lounges back in her chair listening to him shower, then counts a deliberate five minutes from hearing the basement door click shut behind him. 

Now, finally, here she is, standing over him as he kneels so prettily at her feet, skin flushed golden in the candlelight, metal arm gleaming, and a sense of peace rushes through her akin to coming home. Many would likely find it dark, bloody, painful, even _torturous,_ but to her? To him? 

Home.

"Already so eager," she murmurs, sliding her foot forward so that the toe of her shoe rubs against the bulge growing between her submissive's legs. 

He doesn't make a sound save for a sharp intake of breath, doesn't move from his position. 

His form is perfect, just as she had taught him it should be. Knees spread, spine straight and shoulders back, his hands clasped behind him, he keeps his chin parallel to the floor but his eyes downcast, long, dark hair tucked behind his ears so she can see his face. 

"Lovely." 

"Thank you Domina," he breathes, one of the few things he will say tonight. 

He would prefer to be gagged, she knows, but she rarely allows him that privilege. As much as he would wish a scene to be entirely nonverbal, she demands his thanks for her praise, his responses to a direct question. She loves the pained gasps, breathy sighs, and desperate groans he makes, and is not above punishing him for biting his lip against them. 

He knows this of course. 

He knows all the rules, all of her expectations, and there is a silent agreement between them that allows for this to be a safe space for demands to be made and met. 

At her feet he shifts his weight, the dark denim of his jeans strained across his hips. 

"Stand up." 

It's silly perhaps, sentimental, but she loves stripping him out of his clothes. There's something symbolic to it that isn't lost on him, the removal of his armor, taking him down to his most vulnerable self, if he can be vulnerable at all. When they'd first started this he'd fought tooth and nail against her, and it had been fun in its own way – breaking him. She'd come away with more than a few bruises of her own, but the modified serum that swam through both their blood made it easy to fight, to knock each other down knowing the other would always get back up. 

Now he falls into it, sinks, like a stone to the bottom of a pool, his body loose and rocking with her roughness as she jerks harshly at his waistband. The buttons part easily beneath her hands and she shoves the denim down over his hips, stepping back to watch him silently step out of them. 

They're folded neatly and then are placed in the wingback chair that stands in the corner. This more than anything gives her an idea of how tonight will go. When he wants the worst of it, needs the cut of steel and slide of ruby red over his skin he fights, like he used to. Brats, snarls, kicks his clothes into a corner and refuses to speak at all. On those nights he is punished – no doubt exactly what he wants – but this time he moves slowly, with the languid, relaxed calm he so rarely shows to anyone, even her. 

She leads him to the rack with her nails biting into the nape of his neck, relishing the tremble that courses down his spine as she brushes her thumb over his collar. The black leather is thick and unfinished, rough against his skin, and beautiful in its simplicity. His body is lean and toned, skin smooth and unblemished just like hers despite the years of war and battle that should have left them scarred. Together they are art, whether death or sex is their medium. 

He turns willingly under her hands, so malleable like this, so easy to hurt. 

Only the way he likes though, only ever the way he likes. 

Their rack is a custom piece, built by James' own two hands at her instruction. A rectangular wooden frame, five feet across and seven feet high, it is heavy and sturdy, more than capable of supporting their combined weight. A web of ropes creates a neat grid across it, and she does love that image – her submissive, caught in her web. It rests on a slight, backward incline, so that when her boy steps up onto it he is forced to lean backward, to let the ropes take his weight off his feet and destroy any center of balance he might hope to hang on to tonight. 

Still, he goes willingly. 

Carefully she threads his arms through the weave of the frame's basket, takes a length of black rope and quickly binds his wrists together at the small of his back. It tugs on his shoulders but not enough to do any damage, though she supposes if he fought hard enough he could dislocate a shoulder. 

He's smart enough not to attempt it. 

More ropes flow between her hands, and there's something about the symbolism of it all as she lashes him to the frame that quietly delights her, a dark simmer building in the pit of her belly that whispers _spiderweb._ She would keep him here forever like this if she could, her little house pet, but sadly the world is full of more than enough villains to keep them busy. 

Not tonight. 

Ropes go across his chest, binding him back to the frame, four above and four below his pectorals, pinching in their tightness. The ropes themselves are coarse, bite into his skin, prickle as it rubs across his flesh, and already his chest is heaving as his erection grows. He loves the bondage as much as she does even if he is loathe to admit it, loves the sense of helplessness it forces on him. She can see it in the way his pupils constrict, the way goosebumps break out across his upper arms, and this too fills her with a dark delight that has her leaning forward, sinking sharp teeth into the meat of his shoulder. 

He moans, long and low, attempts to lean forward and away but the ropes banded around his chest prevent it. He bucks his hips instead, whimpers, and struggles against the bite just to feel the edge of her teeth worrying at the muscle. 

"Good boy," she murmurs, her Russian lending a mocking tone to the praise. 

James whines, and Natasha chuckles as she struts around the rack to the table nearby, her fingers dancing over the tools and toys she had laid out earlier that evening. Selecting a long, flexible riding crop, she approaches with a click of heels, snatching up another coil of rope on her way. 

"Eyes on me," she commands as she comes to stand before him, using the leather tongue at the end to tap the underside of his chin sharply. He immediately lifts his head from where it had been hanging down toward his chest, brings his gaze up to meet hers. "For the rest of the night my pet." 

"Yes Domina." 

Satisfied, she tucks the riding crop into the back of her waistband and uncoils the loop of rope, crouches elegantly and shoves his legs apart without ceremony. She brings her shoulder up hard into his thigh, threatens to slip it higher into more sensitive territory, and feels him shake. His tight briefs hug the curve of his erection and she takes a moment to nuzzle it, hot and heavy against her cheek. James' breath catches in his throat as he stares down at her, licks his lips to keep from begging. 

She hates it when he begs. 

She rewards his control by wrapping her lips around the base of his cock, breathing heatedly through the fabric and he gasps raggedly, legs shaking as he tries not to buck against her face. She grins, sharp and feral, threatens his dick with her teeth because it makes his pupils blow wide and dark, makes him choke on another whine, then lets him go and sets herself back about her task. Ropes go first around his ankles, tying them to the corners of the frame and spreading his legs wide, then more around his knees to keep him from closing them. He'll try, he always does when it comes down to it, even if he's a slut for pain in the end. 

Task complete, she slides her hands slowly up his legs, enjoying the sensation of coarse hair beneath her palms. For a moment she teases her fingertips along the edges of his boxers, tight around his muscular thighs, then gives in to temptation and cups his erection fully in her palm. 

"I _do_ love how perfectly average your cock is pet," she hums conversationally as he whimpers and nudges forward into her hand. "Seems a pity to waste anything nicer, since you won't be coming any time soon." 

James sobs, his hips hitching. 

He despises edging, orgasm denial, in a manner that she loves to torment him with. 

"You have objections to voice?" she asks coolly, and he shakes his head frantically. 

"No, no Domina, Mistress, I..." 

"Quiet." 

His words dry up instantaneously, and it's gratifying that this man, this talented, deadly soldier can be so fearful of her wrath. 

Her fingers dance up his body, tracing the lines of muscle in his abdomen, and she can't stop herself from leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, to nip her way across to his mouth. He kisses her back, aggressive in that as always, their tongues warring for dominance until she bites down on his lower lip sharply enough to draw blood. Copper bursts across her tongue and she laughs, plants her fists in his chest. 

His breath huffs out of him in shallow grunts as she thumps the flats of her fists into the thick pads of muscle over his breastbone again and again. Any other man would end up with bruises, the dull thuds going deep, turning his rib cage into a base drum, and it's an instrument she loves to play. It's a warm up more than anything, sends a spark of heat rippling through each of them, readies them for more. 

He's rocking his hips against her now, as best he can with her pressed so close. She takes a step away, leaving him bereft, and reaches for the small, silver throwing knife strapped to her forearm. Trailing the flat of the blade down his abdomen, she relishes the shiver she draws from him, digs the point in hard enough to leave a long, red scrape down his belly but not hard enough to break the skin. 

He wants it, so obvious in the way he shakes and squirms, but she won't give it to him. 

Not tonight. 

_"Please Dah..."_

He doesn't quite manage to stop the plea before it escapes him, and she grabs his balls in retaliation, squeezes them in her fist. 

"Forgive me Domina, I apologize, I..." 

_"Quiet,"_ she warns again, sharp and cold as she releases her grip, giving his testicles a light slap. 

He yelps, shifts backward against the weave of rope keeping him upright, but he can't escape her that easily. Fisting her hand in the waistband of his briefs she twists them tight, then slices through them with one smooth stroke of her knife, pulling them away. 

He breathes a tremulous, open-mouthed sigh as she strokes the tips of her fingers up his cock, just once, a light, fleeting touch. He's so soft, sleek, waxed silky smooth at her command, and she loves to play with him, a perfect toy. She gives him a few strokes, just enough to work him up, then lets go, steps back toward the table and comes up with a belt. 

The leather is worn and supple, well cared for, and makes a perfect loop when she folds it in half between her hands. She snaps the two halves together, the crack sharp in the silence of their dungeon, and she can practically see her sub's mouth water, see his dick harden that much more. 

"Always so desperate for the lash," she says with a smirk, tracing the edge of the belt up the length of his cock, further, all the way up over his throat to his mouth, where his tongue flashes out pink and incredibly innocent to taste the leather. "My little pain slut. Count them for me pet." 

"Yes Domina." 

Nodding, she takes a step back, kicks off her heels demurely and sets her feet. 

The first blow cracks across his inner thigh with a deadly accuracy and leaves a bright red stripe across his skin, makes him snarl and writhe in his bonds. The muscles in his arms bulge as he tenses and strains, and she gives him a moment to catch his breath before she prepares for the next swing. 

"One," he pants, chest heaving. "Thank you Domina." 

From there she sets into an easy rhythm, raising welts on his thighs as the belt cracks against his skin. He counts each strike and thanks her for it, and she reaches ten before he starts asking for more. This she allows, because he asks politely and properly - _Thank you Domina, may I have another?_ \- and because he's already lost in the haze of pain, floating on it. Sweat rolls down his chest in fat drops, and she leans in to lick one up, salty on her tongue, before she sucks his nipple between her lips. Curling her tongue around it, she teases it with her teeth until he cries out from the sensation, lets him go. 

He's struggling to hold her gaze now, eyes hazy, and she fists her hand in his hair before kissing him deep and filthy. She does so love binding him like this, forcing him to face her. It limits the space she has to work with, the amount of skin, but it forces him to look at her, gives her a gorgeous view of his every expression. Even though she can only fit about seven strikes in on each of his thighs (she doesn't want to catch his balls by accident, only ever on purpose, with careful control) the sight makes it worth it. 

Besides, she can always turn him over tomorrow, have a go at his backside. 

He loves it when she raises welts on his ass, and he does make the prettiest sounds. 

"Lick," she demands, lifting her palm to his mouth, and he immediately begins laving her palm with his tongue, curling it between her fingers, doing his best to suck them into his mouth. When he's wet it thoroughly she drops it to his cock, starts stroking it slow and steady. 

"Are you ready to start now pet?" she asks silkily, tossing aside the belt and pulling the riding crop from her waistband. 

He pants, nods, swallows twice before he finds his voice, loose and slurred as he floats in whatever quiet place he goes to inside his head. 

"Yes Domina, as you wish please..." 

Tracing the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock with the loop of the crop, she taps it gently against the base of his erection, pulls back to strike... 

Only to be stopped by the beep of her cell phone, harsh and loud in the quiet of the basement. The electronic tone is jarring and grates on her temper, and she sees James instantly start to drag himself up out of his haze, blink away his subspace. 

They both hate being interrupted here, bringing the outside world into this place, but there are one or two people in this world that they would both drop anything for at a moment's notice, and so the burner phone with its private line gets tucked into a cabinet where they'll still be able to hear it, out of sight but not out of reach. 

Natasha presses her knife into her submissive's hands before quickly crossing the room, snatching the ringing phone from the cupboard. It buzzes sharply against her sensitized fingertips, a familiar number blinking across the screen, and a tickle of nerves plays down her spine, but then James is there, pressing in close against her back, all warm, firm muscle, strength and sturdiness. 

"Barton?" he murmurs against her neck, and she nods, bringing the phone to her ear.


	2. Chapter 2

"So," James mumbles against her shoulder, hot and damp against her bare skin. "Barton's getting collared." 

Natasha hums thoughtfully, her cell phone clutched tight in her hand where she's pressing a fist against her mouth. To say that she's concerned is an understatement – Clint has made poor choices in the past and she's not entirely convinced that's changed. As good as this SHIELD has been for him, as happy and safe as he's sounded whenever he's called over the years, she knows what he's like, how vulnerable he is to anyone who shows him a bit of kindness, a gentle hand. 

It was why she herself had taken notice of him at first. He'd seemed so... contrary, so dichotomous; a hardened assassin who could fight the biggest and most brutish of Doms with a smartassed grin on his face, a submissive so broken and desperate for praise, for pets. 

She'd looked at him and seen someone easy to manipulate, easy to use. 

She'd been wrong. 

"He'll be ok," James reassures her, his big, rough hands stroking down her bare forearms, words dark and dangerous. "We'll make sure he's ok." 

They will, certainly. 

Between the two of them, this _Phil Coulson_ will be thoroughly tried and tested. 

But that will come later – now, someone else needs her attention. 

Her sub has just wrenched himself up out of a beautiful headspace, has gone cold and calculating, and though they're both capable of doing it without too much ill effect, having trained themselves to transition seamlessly back and forth out of life-and-death necessity, neither enjoy it. 

James has done terribly well for her tonight, and it is she who should be reassuring him. 

"Later Медвежонок," she murmurs, and instantly she feels him relax against her, all that coiled steel tension bleeding out of his muscles. 

He loves that nickname dearly – Little Bear – perhaps as much as she does, but it is a codeword as much as an endearment. It signals the transition into after care, the end of a scene, brings with it a warmth and closeness they don't often dabble in. 

When they are working, they are The Widow and The Soldier, and they treat each other and speak to each other with all the respect and reverence that a deadly assassin deserves. 

When they play, they are James and his Domina, sometimes pet and Mistress. They are the giving of pain and the taking of everything, they are scolding and scowling and displeasure that allows for fighting and for punishment. 

When they are done however, when it is over, they are just Natasha and Little Bear, loose and sappy and relaxed because that too allows for things. 

Allows for whispers in the dark, allows for cuddling, allows for vulnerability and sentimentality they otherwise never allow. 

Taking her submissive by the hand, she wraps him in the black silk robe hanging in one of the cabinets and leads him back upstairs, out of the dungeon and into the guest bedroom. Painted a deep gold and dominated by a large bed piled high with quilts and pillows, there's something about the space that feels opulent and enclosed, like one is being held tight by the walls, a den to hide away in and exactly what they need. 

She waits by the door until James has crawled into the center of the bed and stretched himself out before she leaves him. She'd collected everything she needs together in the kitchen before their scene had started, and now only has to wait for the tea kettle to boil. It takes less than three minutes – she and James have invested in an excellent electric kettle for each of their safe houses – and she quickly doctors two small china cups of tea with lemon, honey, and a splash of whiskey each before carrying everything back to the bedroom on a tray. 

James hums when she re-enters the room, halfway down in that hazy place he lingers in whenever he has the chance. It's closer to the surface than most other subs' - a sober, Sunday-afternoon laziness in any other man – but for him a still, calm quiet he would never slip into in any other place, with anyone else. When she sits down beside his hip he groans and rolls over onto his belly, tucks his face against her thigh and rolls his hips half-heartedly against the mattress. Her hand in his hair convinces him to sit up and they arrange themselves cross-legged with their backs against the headboard, sipping quietly from their teacups until Natasha has finished hers and leaves the bed once more to change into a pair of sleep-shorts and a t-shirt from the bureau against the wall. 

When she returns James has set aside the teacups and lay back on the bed again, his arms above his head and his eyes closed. A tap to his ankle reminds him to spread his legs and Natasha kneels delicately between them, taking careful stock of the damage done to his inner thighs by the leather strap. Heavy red welts criss-cross his tanned skin but there are no breaks, no blood. 

It was well done. 

Taking a tube of ointment from the bedside table, she rubs it between her palms to warm it before slowly massaging it into his muscle, smoothing it over the stinging skin. With the serum in his blood he will be healed within hours, but this is a part of it, the cleaning and dressing and bandaging. It says _'I will hurt you,'_ but it also says _'I take responsibility for these hurts.'_

That part may be even more important to her than it is to him. 

"I'm sorry we were called away tonight Little Bear," she murmurs in Russian as she carefully works the soothing balm into the worst of his marks. 

James sniffs and rolls his hips, his cock only a little bit hard anymore beneath the edges of his robe. 

"Me too," he rumbles, but when she glances up his eyes are closed and there's a smirk on his face. "Perfectly average my ass." 

"Yes, yes, you're very well endowed my dear," she shushes, patting him on the knee as she rolls her eyes. 

He is – they both know it. 

He has a very lovely cock, and on those few occasions that their play does become that very specific sort of sexual, she enjoys it very much. 

It's the only reason she feels comfortable teasing him for it. 

Her teasing is always false – she does not know that she could truly find anything in him to berate. She respects him too much, admires what he is too much, so she calls him average when he has several inches on most men, calls him vain when she wraps her hand in his long hair and pulls. 

He is so beautiful when he allows her to break him. 

Crawling up the bed she props herself back on the pillows and allows him to roll over half on top of her, the weight and closeness as near they come to cuddles. Neither can bear to stay that way for long, but in the dimmed hush of the room, the interrupted wake of their scene, they will stay that way long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any interest out there in a continuation of Nat and Bucky's story?


	3. Chapter 3

His Domina is anxious. 

He doesn't like it. 

It's such a rare emotion for her, such a rare experience that in truth she handles it quite poorly. Oh, he sees it, he does, but only because he knows her so well, knows the tells she hides so perfectly. It's the hesitation of her step when she comes in from a job, the obsessive search for the next one that gives her away, and he understands it but that doesn't mean he likes it. 

He's worried about Barton too. 

He'd sounded happy on the phone. Unfortunately, coming from Barton, that doesn't mean much. The archer is clever, far more so than he wants people to think, but when it comes to matters of the heart he is... vulnerable. 

That he's planning to allow someone to collar him that he and The Widow have yet to meet... 

They've purchased plane tickets to the states, but they aren't leaving for nearly a week. 

It is not good. 

He can feel his Domina's nervousness and irritability building up along his spinal column like electricity and he hates it. 

So he pushes. 

Needles at her with the silence he prefers and she so hates, shrugging or nodding or frowning when she asks him a question instead of answering her. 

It builds and it builds and it builds until finally, three days from departure, he cracks her, sniffs when she tells him to get his muddy boots off the coffee table and snarls when she grabs him up by the hair. 

He fights her on the way down to the dungeon playroom. Not really - a real fight between them would result in broken bones, chipped teeth, spilled blood - but enough that she has to really work to get him down the stairs and strapped over the whipping bench. He'd thought ahead by wearing shit clothes, ones that he won't care about being ruined, and it's a good thing because she cuts and tears them off his body with impunity, but it's a signal too, a check-in. 

He's doing this on purpose. 

He's asking for this. 

She belts him hard for his impertinence. Starts with the flat, black leather she'd used on him before, but keeps the end loose this time, using the length of it to cover his back and shoulders with welts. It's heavy and harsh and angry, but controlled, always controlled as she avoids his kidneys and his spine, and she peppers him with snide little accusations as she goes, caustic little reminders of his behavior. 

She switches to the cat o'nine tails halfway through, attacks his ass and his thighs with a vengeance. She wants him to scream and he can give her his pain, but he makes her work for that too. He grits his teeth against the sound, clenches his jaw against the yelps and moans until he can't anymore, until her rhythm slows as her arm grows heavy, until he can feel her sweat dotting his back as she leans over him. 

Then he snarls for her. 

Roars, like a wild tiger, pulling at his bonds as his skin burns away from his bones. 

She keeps going until he's hoarse and she can't swing the whip straight anymore, until they're both panting and he's hard as rock, his hips squirming against the leather side of the bench. There are streaks of sweat rolling down his sides – both his and hers – and his throat feels dry and raw, and it's the best, most wonderful feeling that he's felt in a long time. 

As his Domina loosens the straps around his wrists and he slithers off the side of the bench, a warmth starts to bloom in his chest that rivals even the warmth spreading like fire across his backside. He's slipped, gone down, a bit deeper than he usually goes, and his head is fuzzy, his alertness all dulled. Pride though, pride is what he feels most, swelling up hard beneath his breastbone, and that... that's good. 

It's a job well done, target hit, mission accomplished, and there's one hell of a smug grin stuck to his face when she drags him up onto his feet. 

Probably why she slaps him across the cheek and drops him to the floor again. 

He whines, and it turns into a deep, rough purr when she threads her fingers into his hair, grips him tight and drags him forward, forcing him to crawl right to her feet, to kneel with his knees on either side of one of her small, lovely feet. 

It only takes a nudge for him to understand, just a shift of her weight, and then he's eagerly taking the permission he's been given. He leans his forehead against her hip, curls his hands around the back of her thigh and starts rolling his spine slinkily, dragging the tip of his cock across the rough denim of her jeans. It's harsh and painful and wonderful all at the same time, not enough and far too much. His hips thrust forward eagerly and he shifts like an excited puppy, pulling himself closer and humping at her leg. 

It occurs to him in a low, distant sort of way that he should be ashamed of his desperation, of his need. Ashamed of his own lack of control. He's so far from the Soldier in this moment, so far from the sharp and deadly standard he holds himself to that it's nearly frightening, but his Domina's fingers are tight in his hair, the scent of her perfume strong in his nose. They're in their own safehouse and he's been rightly and properly punished for his behavior, and now he's being offered his reward for taking his punishment well. 

All is as it should be. 

He comes with a deep intensity that shakes him to his core, the orgasm rolling over him suddenly but gently. It sucks the air from his lungs, his mouth open in a silent gasp as the calm and sheer relief of being safe and well-in-hand brings about the sharp, hitching twist low in his belly that has him spilling himself all over his Domina's pant leg and his own stomach. 

Shivering, shaking, he sags against her for all of a moment, takes those few, precious seconds to lean against her strength with his eyes closed, feeling his heart thump against his ribs. A moment, that's all he allows himself, and then he's pulling back to lean down and lick up his come like he's supposed to, but she pulls him away. 

"Come to bed Little Bear," she says, Russian stiff and stilted, and he goes quietly because that is what she sounds like when she feels indebted, when she thinks she owes someone her thanks. 

Upstairs, she takes him to their den-room and lays him out in their bed, her hands leaving him for only seconds as she fetches the aloe. The first pass of the lotion over his smarting ass and thighs is like heaven, just as good as the original whipping had been. His Domina's hands move slowly and efficiently, spreading the balm over his skin in long, smooth sweeps, easing the sharp sting into a low, throbbing warmth across his back and shoulders. 

He sighs when she leans down and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, eyes fluttering shut, and his heart thumps strongly in his chest when she offers him the two words she so rarely speaks, the two words that mean thanks and pride and love in their own, quiet way. 

"Good boy."


	4. Chapter 4

He's an unassuming man from a distance. 

Reserved, buttoned-up, quiet almost for an Alpha. 

Up close the suits are just a little too nice, the calm a little too steady, his movements just a bit too controlled to be ordinary. 

Of course, Clint's told them that he's a Level Seven Agent of SHIELD, which goes a long way toward giving them a good idea of exactly what this man really is beneath the everyman veneer. 

Who he is though, who he truly is they will judge for themselves. 

It's not that they don't trust Clint of course. They trust him completely, to be exactly who _he_ is. Unfortunately, who _Clint_ is can be a bit of a problem at times, as his heart is far more vulnerable than his body. He does nothing by halves, and he's given the whole of himself away far too freely in the past, to people who hadn't deserved even a small part of him. From the sounds of it this Phillip J Coulson is a good man, an atypical dominant in a world of wolves, but they will test his mettle themselves. 

If half of what they've heard of SHIELD is true, then any of their agents worth their salt can fake an atypical assignation for a few months. 

It's a delicate test, Natasha will admit to that. A Dominant could react to it in any number of ways, and it's hardly a controlled experiment. She and James have been scoping out the apartment where Clint has invited them to lunch for more than a week, and perhaps it's cheating but they've waited until one Phillip J Coulson looks flustered coming down the front steps before they act. They don't know what has upset him, nor how badly, which certainly changes the game but that's rather the point all around. 

A stressed Dom is a reactive Dom, no matter their style. 

She sends James in uncollared, unmarked. It's one thing for a Dominant to encounter a contracted submissive, it's entirely another to have a confrontation with an independent sub. There are a dozen places where this could all go wrong, where Phillip Coulson could fail her test, but her James can take care of himself, and besides, he's not going in under drop. 

She wouldn't allow that. 

No, he goes in as the Winter Soldier, only _pretending_ to be a meek, uncollared sub when he steps into the local coffee shop behind Clint's new beau and 'accidentally' knocks into him, spilling hot coffee all over the man's brightly shined shoes and James's elbow. 

"Ow, hey, watch it!" he yelps, deliberately loud, deliberately challenging to a Dominant. 

It was very obviously his fault. 

"Apologies," the man says tightly, his eyes on his shoes as he steps out of the steaming puddle spreading across the floor, his jaw muscles ticking visibly even from where Natasha observes from across the shop. "You..." 

"Oh, shit, I mean, um, shoot..." James mumbles, his entire demeanor changing as Coulson lifts his gaze enough to catch on to the fact that his wake-up call has come courtesy of a submissive, "I'm so sorry Sir." 

Her boy deserves an Emmy for his acting. His shoulders have caved forward as he's hunched in on himself, making himself small even as he's ducked his head, a lovely pink blush dusting his cheeks as he makes himself vulnerable to this man. She's surprised to find herself significantly more sexually aroused than she's been in some time. 

She's not sure if she'll punish him or reward him for this. 

Coulson just sighs heavily. 

"It's fine," he huffs, transferring his now empty cup to his free hand and flicking the other to rid it of the scalding Americano dripping down his wrist. "Just an accident. Are you alright?" 

Hmm... 

So far so good. 

He hadn't lashed out when James barked at him, nor had he taken advantage of the 'sweet little sub' thus far. He seems willing to let the deliberate coffee-spill go as an accident, and to be genuinely concerned for James' wellbeing, not using it as an excuse to flirting. His eyes dart over her submissive quickly but calculatingly, and it's enough of an excuse to have her stepping forward, upping the ante as it were. 

It's certainly not anything so base as jealousy, no. 

She wants to see if this Coulson's reaction will change when he realizes that James isn't some vulnerable, uncollared sub, but a claimed pet who should be well behaved and under control. 

"James, what on earth," she says scoldingly as she sashays toward the pair of them, blonde wig firmly in place. "I sent you in for coffees ten minutes ago." 

Natasha blinks, very blatantly taking in the scene in front of her, from the coffee quickly cooling on the floor to the tiny splatter marks on Coulson's tie. 

"Oh, I am so sorry sir," she frowns, grabbing James firmly by the ear and twisting him in close to her side, earning a pained yelp that her beautiful little bear would never normally emit. "My boy is clumsy; I can't apologize enough." 

"No, no, please," Coulson says, brushing off her concerns, waving one hand as he pitches his paper cup into a nearby trashcan and dabbing at his tie with a napkin he's snatched from the counter. "An honest accident." 

More points – he hasn't blamed James to his Dom, despite the fact that he was rude and walking around uncollared and uncuffed. 

"At least let us replace your drink, Mr...?" 

"Clark," he offers easily, and if Natasha didn't know better she'd think that was really his name. "And that's quite alright; you don't have to..." 

"Oh please, it's the least my boy can offer." 

Coulson frowns, just a bit, glances between her and James, who is still playing up the blushing, chastised sub. 

"If it would ease his conscience," he says slowly. "Then I'd much appreciate it." 

Natasha nods, smiling, not only because it fits their little narrative but because she is well pleased. It does not tell all of course, her little test, but this Phil Coulson has thus far passed with flying colors, and she is more than happy to purchase him a new drink. He thanks her without fuss, nods once to James, and takes his leave of them, unaware it seems of how their eyes follow him up the sidewalk. 

"That went better than expected," James says quietly at her side and Natasha hums with consideration, wraps her arm around his waist and jerks him aggressively into her side. 

"Yes, I think it went very well," she purrs, "Due in no small part to you. You've done very well for me today Little Bear." 

James whimpers almost silently, rolls his body against her so subtly that not a soul in the shop notices but her. 

"Come. Let's go home. We have much to... talk about."


End file.
